


(you're) the one habit i just can't kick

by wanderlustnostalgia



Category: Saturday Night Live, Weekend Update (SNL)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Drug Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Overdose, M/M, References to Drugs, Stay Safe Guys, boys being soft, it's soft boi hours folks, poor stefon, seth worries, they're doing their best, very lowkey depression mentions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-07-04 11:46:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15840651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderlustnostalgia/pseuds/wanderlustnostalgia
Summary: It’s Sunday night, and Stefon showed up an hour ago swaying on his feet and looking like hell, and now he’s knocked out with his head in Seth’s lap, and Seth is stroking his hair.





	(you're) the one habit i just can't kick

**Author's Note:**

> If you follow me on Tumblr (zoleskymeyers), you probably saw the unfinished version of this; for once in my life I actually have motivation!! so I decided to work on it a little and, well, voila--fresh Sethon angst. (Because who doesn't secretly ship Sethon for the suffering, haha.)
> 
> This can take place whenever, honestly (like before marriage and kids and stuff, but anytime before their relationship when they were both still on Update, I'm not super-picky). I really just wanted an excuse to write angst without overdoing it, hopefully I've succeeded. Looking back it feels somewhat inconsistent with my other fics but I'm okay with that :,)
> 
> Big shoutout to jbird181, Chychyd, stefonzolesky, and CaptainMikeShelbyMiller for feeding the Sethon angst train; your fics have all brought much-needed joy and comfort (and suffering) into my stressful life, so thank you <3
> 
> Title from "Heaven's Gate" by Fall Out Boy.

The most common (and understandable) misconception about Stefon is that he’s always partying, that his life is just one constant blur of drug-fueled hysteria involving drag queens and Furbies and a disproportionate amount of midgets with no sense of starting or stopping or any indication of rest in between.  It might have actually been true at one point, if Seth’s earliest memories of Stefon (sleepless, manic, a jittery mess) are any indication.

The truth, of course, is that even the most dedicated of City Correspondents burns out eventually.  Seth learns this sometime between their third and fourth segment together, when he nearly has a heart attack in the doorway upon finding Stefon’s lanky frame sprawled out on his couch, one tattoo-sleeved arm dangling off the edge and long skinny legs draped haphazardly over the armrest.

It feels bizarre and vaguely intrusive the first few times, but Seth can never work up the nerve to kick him out, and after a while it becomes their normal—Seth coming home every so often to find Stefon in his kitchen pouring two mugs of coffee or passed out upside-down on the couch or curled up with his dog in the armchair Seth never uses.  He’s gotten used to it.  The only time it’s ever really gotten him in trouble is when he and Alexi came home once and Stefon was coming out of the shower with the tiniest fucking towel standing between them and his crotch.

(Alexi, strangely, has been completely understanding about the whole unannounced-Stefon-thing.  Alexi is a goddamn saint.)

So now it’s Sunday night, and Stefon showed up an hour ago swaying on his feet and looking like hell, and now he’s knocked out with his head in Seth’s lap, and Seth is stroking his hair.

He doesn’t really know why he’s doing it, because Stefon’s hair is damp and greasy with sweat and gel, glitter and powder and a dozen other unseen remnants of the night before, but it feels—kind of natural.  Like his hand belongs in Stefon’s hair and Stefon’s head belongs in his lap and they belong here, in this space, together—

Then his phone vibrates, and he remembers.

He’s careful not to disturb Stefon as he reaches for his phone, hand still inexplicably tangled in Stefon’s hair.  It feels kind of like there’s some invisible force tethering them together, or some nagging voice in his head telling him _don’t let go, don’t let go._

It’s Alexi.  Of course it is.

She’s free tonight, which is a rarity.  Ideally she’d be free every night, but being a human rights lawyer involves long hours spent poring over files and records and paperwork and honestly, neither of them really thought this through.  Busy professionals being busy professionals and having no time for like, actual social lives, which sounds kind of like something Stefon would say.  It should probably bother Seth more than it does, and they should probably talk about it sometime over dinner or coffee or something, but honestly—he just can’t be bothered.

“Seth?” she asks, and only then does he realize he’s zoned out and she’s waiting for a response.  He should say yes, he’d like to see her.  _Yes, just let me take care of some things real quick;_ or _yes, just give me twenty and I’ll head over, drinks on me?_

But the weight in his lap shifts slightly, pillows his cheek on Seth’s thigh, and the quiet whimper that follows goes straight to Seth’s heart.  And maybe it’s the late hour and Seth’s proneness to getting overemotional when he’s exhausted, but _fuck—_ Stefon looks so _small_ from his vantage point, stray glitter dusted like freckles across his nose and his hair caked through with god-knows-what, long lashes and smudged mascara fanning his face.  His shirt collar’s ripped through and if Seth strains a little, he can make out a trail of hickeys leading up from his collarbone, fresh and glaring.

“Yeah, um,” he says, and swallows.  “Now’s really not a good time.  Sorry.”

Alexi sighs faintly, and he bites his lip with guilt for the disappointment she must feel, but there’s no anger in her tone; if anything, there’s a faint hint of resignation.  Like she was preparing for the inevitable, or something to that effect.  “No worries,” she says.  “Call me tomorrow?”

“Sure,” he says, and when he hangs up, he closes his eyes and leans his head back against the couch.  He can’t remember the last time they’ve seen each other.  He tries to picture her smile, tries to picture the two of them together and happy the way they’re supposed to be; but all he can see is the image of a slender club kid gyrating on a dimly-lit dance floor, surrounded by human clipboards and grown men in wedding dresses; that same club kid grabbing his hand, dragging him across the room, twirling him, eyes dilated and wild and lips smeared with red, breath tangy with some unidentifiable liquor too strong for a normal human being—grinning, always grinning.

That same club kid, still and pale in a hospital bed, barely breathing, looking far, far too fragile.  The track marks on his exposed arms suddenly glaringly obvious; his cheekbones protruding more than they should; the bags under his eyes sickeningly dark; the hoarsely whispered, “’m tired, Seth,” telling him everything he needed to know.

It’s been—Seth doesn’t even know how long.  Long enough that he shouldn’t have to worry, certainly (long enough that Stefon’s told him, in no uncertain terms, that he _really_ doesn’t have to worry, _Seth Meyers worries too much, Stefon knows his limits now, Stefon will do better,_ wink-pout-cross-my-heart), but that won’t stop him from opening his door, from letting Stefon collapse into his arms with smeared makeup and torn clothing and lovebites from an overzealous nobody dotting his skin.  It’ll all be gone by the morning (the hickies and the makeup and _Stefon_ ), and with it his worries as they’re absorbed into the ever-constant anxiety rush that comes with running a live show, but sooner or later Stefon will be back again and Seth doesn’t know if he’ll be lucid or upright or in one piece the next time, doesn’t know if he can face the alternative.

Stefon stirs slightly, shifting onto his back, and now he’s blinking sleepily up at Seth, eyes half-open, lips downturned.  “Wha…?” he murmurs, pouting slightly, and he looks so, so _young._

Seth presses a finger to Stefon’s lips, runs a hand down his cheek without really thinking about it.  “Shh,” he whispers.  “Sleep.”

The crease in Stefon’s brow doesn’t soften until Seth’s hand is back in his hair, working through the last of the knots, stroking the damp bangs, and it’s only when Seth pats his head and squeezes his shoulder lightly that Stefon lets his eyes fall shut again, a contented sigh escaping his lips.

When Seth finally falls asleep, it’s with his hand still in Stefon’s hair, Stefon’s head in his lap, like he belongs.

**Author's Note:**

> I made myself so emo writing this so I feel your pain I promise...


End file.
